Handle This Together
by UnderCanopy
Summary: Sherlock finally tells John an important part of his dark history, that refreshes some old feelings. JohnLock! Mature content!
1. Chapter 1

I needed to write, and this little bit of fluff came out of nowhere. I haven't written fan fiction in a while and never for Sherlock. I am welcome to any comments anyone has as I am sure my writing style has changed wince the last time I posted anything(under a different account). Maybe I will leave this open to write more, but for right now I just needed to get this out of my system.

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"Finally?" he asked with such a hint of surprise that one would only notice it if they really knew him.

"Yes, I'll tell you the whole story if you will listen and accept it as mine and as my past," he responded to the older man next to him.

"Sherlock, there has been no doubt in my mind that I would ever say anything but yes to a request like that from you." He had never seen the detective look so broken as he did at this moment. He had to let him talk. Sherlock was finally letting him into his past, into the darkness that he had to live through. He would be here to listen to it all.

The brunette nodded and started his story, or at least his version of a story. "The only reason I am alive is that somebody was there to help me through the hell that is my life. One person was able to see the intelligence and hope I had buried long ago under the insanity and habits. I hope they realize how much they have done for me. I have something to live for now because they were willing, and still are willing, to help one broken person."

"Him?" They both knew whom he was talking about, but for some reason, it needed to be said.

Sherlock nodded his head and continued, " of course, no matter how much I don't want to admit it, he knew about the lowest moments of my life. He was actually the one to me up out of the gutters himself and gave me a new start. He saw how I gave the last thing I held onto just to escape this world and my demons, just to feel the rush one more time. I have successfully blocked out these memories for many years because of you. Because now I am safe and that has no spot in my life, but I guess some scars never truly heal over. I'm assuming you understand the outcome of he words, but here they are anyways. You know about the addiction, the cocaine, and how it brought me to the streets, hanging on by a thread, but in the beginning, I didn't understand the system in place there. The currency is different when you have nothing. Money is nice, but most people want 'favors.' I never let anyone push me all the way. Besides no one ever really cares that much, well until one did. He shoved me into one of the many dark corners and took from me the only thing I had left. I was so desperate as I took a hit and he pounded into me that it didn't even register at the time. Now, more than anything, I wish he hadn't taken my last shred of life because now I feel like I have nothing left to give you. There isn't anything that I can give you for the first time."

By the end of the whole story, Sherlock was hanging his head and his voice was barely a whisper. This was really another side of him that John knew existed but never really asked to see because he knew just how painful it would be to get out of the younger man.

John pulled the detective up to his side on the bed. They had finally given up fighting the idea that they weren't attracted to each other and just gave in. John had been the one to finally break down and admit that their friendship was more than just a friendship. Sherlock had been shocked that John broke the homeostasis that was their not-so-very platonic relationship but just nodded in agreement. They both knew that something needed to change or one of them was going to explode. That sentence slipped out of out John's mouth a little over a month ago, and there was no looking back. John had migrated his bedroom into Sherlock's almost immediately after they had admitted that they were attracted to each other. Now they spent most of their nights talking and getting to know each other on a deeper level. They hadn't had sex yet because both men had some demons hidden in their past that both wanted to work through together.

As Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, the older man continued, "Please don't ever feel like you have nothing left to give me because you have given me so much already. From the very beginning, you gave me a place to call home not just a physical place to live, but also an emotional place to finally feel safe after Afghanistan. You showed me that love isn't black or white. It has so many facets that I could not even begin to imagine before you. You have given me a while new outlook. You have given me everything, and I am just leaning how to repay you."

A bewildered look spread across Sherlock's face as he tilted his head up to look at John, "I haven't given you anything but hell."

"Oh Sherlock, you cannot even imagine the life you have given me. I was bouncing from woman to woman and was never truly happy just simply trying to get off. You have no idea how empty I was before you finally let me in to your world." John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock even understood that he wasn't the only broken one in the flat. "Really, you have an amazing mind, but sometimes you can be so ignorant."

At that, Sherlock chuckled and looked John straight in the eyes, "I'm ignorant? Thanks for making me feel safe. Maybe I take back all I just said."

"Oh sod off. You are such a jerk sometimes," laughed John as he pulled the detective just a little bit tighter. John lowered the volume and intensity of his voice again. He needed to ask one more thing. "So you really aren't a virgin? Even after all of that teasing and taunting from Mycroft?"

John could hear Sherlock breathe out a little heavier, but he nodded his head in acknowledgment, "Mycroft knows how I really lost my virginity, but we try not to acknowledge it because in my mind, I am still a virgin. I was strung out, and he used me so I could get a fix. I do not remember much of it except it was very painful, and it turned me off of sex for a long time. I had only ever gotten anywhere close to intimate one other time in my life. That is why Mycroft, and I, still calls me a virgin. I wish I was because that was the biggest mistake of my life."

John heard the tremble in the deep voice and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to the other man's forehead. Sherlock tilted his head up so he could meet John for a proper kiss. This was his favorite part of their whole relationship. Just lying with John and letting the world melt away.

John pulled away for a second. He had to say one more thing before this conversation was over. "I am so glad you told me what happened, but I hope that you won't let your past hold you back. I am willing to show you that this all shouldn't be painful. You do know I have never been with another man anyways, so it will be new for both of us. We will explore this together."

The smile that spread across Sherlock's face said it all. He finally felt safe. He finally felt like he could trust someone again. He felt like he could trust someone enough to finally let a relationship grow. "John, I want to be with you. I want to. I really do, but for once I do not know what I am doing. Can I say that I want to have sex with you and not let it sound like a line from some crap telly?"

"Oh it does sound like a line from some shitty show, but that is okay. Nothing is normal between us anyways," responded the doctor. This was really a new type of relationship for him. Even with Sherlock being a man, something felt different about this. Something felt better.

Sherlock closed to small gap that was between them and captured John in a kiss that conveyed every emotion his words could not. He had never been good at expressing emotions with words. He much preferred actions. In accord with that idea, he pushed John all the way back and deepened the kiss.

Before either of them was ready to stop, their circulatory systems were screaming for more oxygen, so Sherlock moved down to John's neck. Tonight he wanted to mark him. He wanted to make sure that when they showed up to a crime scene this week, Lestrade would role his eyes and try to ignore the obvious fact that he was Sherlock's.

As Sherlock was busy with John's neck, his hands moved to remove the horribly outdated jumper that John had been wearing that day. He disengaged John's neck long enough to move the jumper over his head and through it on to the floor beside their bed. Sherlock slowly moved down John's chest as his hands traced a path across the scarred skin. He knew most of the stories, but there were still some secrets in John's past that Sherlock had yet to uncover.

John lay below the younger man as he moved his long fingers across his chest. John had always marveled at how delicate yet strong they looked. As they moved passed his belly button, John pulled Sherlock back up for another kiss as his hands worked to undo the buttons on the shirt covering the pale detective above him. He eventually worked all the buttons free just as both men were requiring a little more oxygen than they were getting at the time.

They pulled apart as both men reached for the other's belt and trouser buckles. Both pairs of trousers were on the floor in a matter of seconds. Sherlock reached for John's hair and pulled him close again. John took the momentary distraction to flip Sherlock onto his back and straddle the detective. John could feel a slight gasp come from Sherlock as he processed what was happening. John wiggled down onto the bulge that he was now positioned directly over. That small gasp that he has just heard come out of his favorite consulting detective was quickly becoming a moan as there were only two thin layers of fabric separating them.

John moved down Sherlock's body until he reached the band holding the offending fabric in place. He hooked his fingers underneath and slowly moved them down Sherlock's legs while completely ignoring the erection the sprung free. He loved teasing Sherlock like this because it was one of the few times he could have the upper hand.

After John flung the fabric out of the way, he kissed a line up Sherlock's leg all the way back up to those beautiful lips completely bypassing the erection that stood in the way. He captured Sherlock for another kiss when he felt those violinist fingers work down his back and pull his pants off of his body as well. They were both finally free from the last physical restrictions between the two of them.

John moved his hands back down Sherlock's body and finally lightly grasped the younger man's cock. He only teased him for a moment before Sherlock got antsy and started moving his hips to make the friction of the soldier's hand more effective. John laughed into the detective underneath him and tightened his grip.

After only a few strokes, he removed his hand and shimmied down the glorious body beneath him again. This time he took as much of Sherlock in his mouth as he could. The sizable cock was a problem the first time he attempted this, but now he had learned how to please his favorite genius without choking.

He bobbed up and down as Sherlock slowly lost control of his precious mind and gave himself over to his physical reactions. He wasn't thinking anymore. He was living in the moment and trusting the man who sat between his legs.

Before long, Sherlock pulled John up by the hair for another quick kiss and looked him in the eye. "I want _you._ Please help me replace my one memory of this."

"Are you sure? I don't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable," responded the doctor.

"I am sure," responded Sherlock. Tonight he would finally stop referring to himself as too damaged. He would finally stop referring to himself as a damaged virgin.

John smiled and nodded as he reached over to the bedside table and pulled out some lube. He quickly returned his mouth to Sherlock's cock as the younger man gasped. He worked his way up and back down the pale member as he popped open the small tube in his hands. He prepped a few digits and looked back up to Sherlock who was simply laying with his eyes closed trying to focus on every nerve response his brain was processing.

John took that as a sign to continue, so he worked one finger around the tight ring of muscles that blocked him. He continued working Sherlock's cock while his ignored one begged for attention.

As the muscles relaxed, he worked in a second finger and tried to coax Sherlock to relax. He has to make sure the detective was as relaxed as possible as to cause as little pain as he could.

He dared to look up at Sherlock and was surprised when he met a pair of smoldering eyes. There was no more pain, no more hidden memories behind those eyes. It was simply happiness he saw looking back at him. That made him happier than anything else could.

The hand that wasn't currently occupied within the detective reached down to slick up his own erection that had been left ignored up until then. He groaned a little as he finally felt some friction on his own member.

He released Sherlock's cock and looked up at him again. "Are you sure?" whispered John. This was more for his own good than the detective's. He was far too gone to comprehend any serious questions now.

John simply got a grunt in return, so he moved himself closer to Sherlock's entrance and put his hands on his lean hips. He pushed forward just enough to start to push passed the tight ring of muscles as he heard a slight his from his dark-haired boyfriend. He sat still for a moment until Sherlock was the one who tried to move. John took that as his signal to continue and slowly pushed all the way in. When he was there, he looked at Sherlock again and smiled. The look on his face said everything their words couldn't. He was finally sharing this moment with someone how cared about him.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to start wiggling to get more, so John decided he must not be in too much pain. He pulled out slowly and pushed back in a few times. Slowly at first, to make sure he wasn't hurting Sherlock. Instead Sherlock moved his hips with more intensity and gripped his cock between his fingers.

Their pace quickened as both men knew they wouldn't last all that long between the physical stimulation and the emotional bond that was so strong between them. It only took a few more minutes for Sherlock to start shaking around John as he tried to fight off the orgasm. He wanted to wait for John who he figured couldn't be far behind him. He took John's swollen lips in a kiss that expressed all of the sentiment that he knew he wouldn't be able to express. This was something new for both of them, and he wanted it to last, but he could feel that it wouldn't. A few more thrusts from John, and he was screaming into the kiss they were both still consumed by.

The clenching of muscles around John was all it took to unravel the last shred of control he had as he pounded in to Sherlock with every bit of strength he has. Sherlock's orgasm pulled John over the edge as they both shook with the intensity of the moment.

John collapsed onto Sherlock and the younger pulled him into a tight hug while he tried to figure out which way was up again. John pecked a small kiss onto the sweaty forehead of the genius, and they both smiled.

A few minutes after they had both settled back down, John left momentarily to grab something to clean them both off with. He returned and quickly cleaned most of the cum off of them both.

He threw the fabric on the floor and settled in next to Sherlock. No more words were spoken that night. Everything that needed to be expressed was out in the open. There were no more hidden demons for Sherlock, and John's were not nearly as tormenting anymore. They could make this work even if the guys down at The Yard did give them shit the next few times they were there. They could handle this together.


	2. Chapter 2

So I decided to expand this into somewhat of a story. This is just a pet project that I will not compromise my studies for. That being said, I am beginning to love these characters, so I hope you enjoy another chapter. There will be more to come!

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It had been two weeks. Two weeks since the night that the great Sherlock Holmes finally let one of his darkest memories stop haunting him. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were finally completely open with each other from the simplest disagreements or quarks to the deepest, most intimate memories or desires. It seemed weird to think that a few months ago, they were still single men, one asexual, in practice and possibly theory, and one questioning the idea that he was, most likely, bisexual instead of straight.

In the time period since Sherlock stopped referring to himself as a virgin, they had had two cases, two cases that took the genius less than two days combined to solve. To say the least, Sherlock was beginning to get a touch bored. In fact, the boredom had surpassed the normal dismembered body parts in the kitchen for experiments and was beginning to approach shoot-the-wall boredom.

John hadn't seen the detective this bored for a while. Not much was amusing him anymore. They tried lazy days in bed just focused on each other. That lasted for a whole ten hours before Sherlock declared himself bored again. John had tried to convince him to go for a walk around the city with him. The two of them could explore the place they lived a little more and maybe get some dinner. Sherlock wouldn't even entertain that idea past its ill-fated conception. John even allowed a few games of Cluedo before he almost strangled Sherlock. The world's only consulting detective was extremely, excruciatingly bored, and everyone who knew Sherlock knew that it would not end well if he didn't have something to occupy that brilliant mind.

Sherlock had been awake for a few hours before the doctor crawled out of bed and stumbled to the shower. Sherlock had always been an early riser, but without a case, he was so bored that he wasn't sleeping. Instead, he was just lying around for hours after John drifted to sleep. He claimed it was because he hadn't been able to tire himself out during the day, so he wouldn't be able to sleep until he was busy again even though he wouldn't sleep much when he was on a case either. John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock was some form of android with extremely human-like features. This lack of sleep and eating was simply not normal.

After a shower that Sherlock always deemed too hot and too long, John came down to a cup of tea already poured and ready for him. He looked to the curly-haired genius and got a simple smile, "I heard you start the shower, and I figured you would appreciate it."

John nodded as he sampled the tea only to find it free from poisons and other contaminates. He filed that into the back of his mind. Sherlock was being a genuinely nice person this time instead of trying to figure out of there was anything in the sugar. Maybe a bored Sherlock was a nice Sherlock.

Just as the thought crossed Johns mind he looked up to see a glint of excitement in the younger man's eyes. He sighed and asked the dreaded question, "Sherlock, what do you have planned?"

Sherlock sprang to life and rattled off something about the morgue, a body with an interesting disease that he had always wanted to witness the effects of in person, and Molly securing the body for a few hours. John was a doctor. He understood how interesting diseases could be. In fact, sometimes he picked up one of his old medical reference books and brushed up on his infectious or rare disease knowledge. It was a way to relax and learn something he had forgotten because, well, in the military, it isn't so much about infectious disease so much as it is about stopping bleeding and saving limbs.

"Sherlock, which disease are we talking about here? Is there a possibility that either one of us could be infected?" asked a rather concerned Dr. Watson.

Sherlock looked at him with a tinge of disbelief, "do you think I would put you into harms way? Of course it isn't contagious, merely interesting."

"Sherlock, what did the man die from?"

"Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis," stated Sherlock as he reached for his scarf and the Belstaff. "Come on John. It'll be fascinating."

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist to stop him for a couple of seconds. He pulled him closer and looked him straight in the eye, "you are bored, and you want to go look at the corpse of a patient that had their skin practically melt off? Really Sherlock, there isn't anything else you would rather do?"

"His skin formed blisters under the epidermis that got so big and numerous that they fuse together and cause the layer of skin to slide off! How could that not be fascinating?" asked a confused Sherlock. His face was lit up like a child's that was just told they were heading to the zoo or thee park. If John didn't know any better, he would suspect that Sherlock were giddy.

John had no idea how such a revolting disease got into a London morgue, or how one Sherlock Holmes could possibly find this disease interesting enough to spend a few hours playing with a corpse.

"Sherlock, if my memory serves me right, that disease causes most of the mucosal membranes to deteriorate to the point that the bowels start hemorrhaging, the nasal passages seem to melt out of a person, and, in rare cases, the genitals to swell and deteriorate in a gruesome fashion. This is what you want to do to amuse yourself?"

Sherlock still looked confused. Why didn't John understand that he needed to do something, anything, to occupy his mind for a few hours before he could come back to the flat and relax? He needed to do something!

"John, it is a disease that desiccates the mucosal membranes! Think about how that could look inside and out! Please let me go," begged a Sherlock that was beginning to look a lot like a disgruntled adolescent.

The hand that was holding Sherlock's wrist captive moved down to grip the agile hand of the man-child standing before the doctor. John was tempted to smack Sherlock on the back of the head with his other hand, but he managed to suppress that urge. "Sherlock, if I let you go and play with a corpse for a few hours, will you agree to an actual date afterwards? Not me ordering take away and us lying on the couch until I fall asleep, but rather us going out to a nice restaurant where we both eat a nice meal, and then we go back to the flat and shag until neither one of us can walk. Is that an acceptable compromise?"

The grip surrounding John's hand tightened a measurable amount, and the corners of Sherlock's mouth turned into a slight smile. He nodded his head eagerly and tried to release John's hand to finish buttoning his coat, but John needed an actual, verbal answer from the detective.

"Sherlock," he started "I need you to actually say yes. Not nod your head and forget about it in five minutes. I want to have a normal evening with my boyfriend, if that is indeed what you are. I want one evening without you acting like a robot. You have to actually say yes."

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback by what John had just said. They actually hadn't ever muttered the word boyfriend to each other. They hadn't labeled what they were yet and somehow it seemed like they didn't need to. Everyone that had spent any time around the two of them in the last year or so could easily see that they weren't just flatmates that solved crimes together, but the fact still remained, neither one of them had called the other their boyfriend.

"Dinner with my boyfriend? That seems rather benign," responded Sherlock with a low timbre to his voice.

"Sherlock, just once I would like to believe that underneath the consulting detective façade that you show the world is a man who actually cares about the people who are close to him. Prove me right just once?" replied John.

Sherlock looked like he was readying to argue with his favorite doctor, but instead he just smiled and nodded his head, "of course I will join you for a proper date after I thoroughly explore this corpse. I am also not complaining about what you propose we do after the meal."

John smirked and nodded. He released the younger man's hand and grabbed his own coat before he followed Sherlock out the door and into a cab.

The quick ride over to the morgue was spent in comfortable silence while Sherlock drew circles on the back of John's hand. Sherlock had said he did this because he wanted to memorize he patterns of John's skin. He wanted to know what he felt like without looking. These quiet moments were normally nice between the two of them because when things weren't quiet it meant they were either being shot at or running across busy streets. These moments of peace were rare, and John quite enjoyed them.

When they pulled up outside of the morgue, Sherlock almost bolted out of the cab. John had to pay the driver before Sherlock completely left him behind. The genius was so bored that dissecting a body that would appear to the untrained eye to have the top layer of many of the body's membranes melting away was a good way to spend the afternoon. Sherlock would need a case soon or he would be deducing the lives of the people he ran into on the street. He would surely end up in jail if he continued to be this bored.

The body ended up being that of a sixty-seven year old white male. He had developed the severe case of TEN due to a reaction to an anticonvulsant medication he was given after he had his first seizure a few months prior. The reaction was quite severe, but he just thought it was a reaction to a new soap he had been using, so he neglected the blisters for a few weeks until they got to the point that the skin was sliding off in the middle of he night. He was admitted to the hospital approximately a week ago and died this morning. The condition is generally treatable if caught before chunks of skin are torn off.

What killed the man took Sherlock all of ten minutes looking at his internal organs to figure out. The man had allowed the disease to progress so far that his internal membranes were separating, and he ended up hemorrhaging early in the morning. They rushed him to surgery to try to locate and stop the bleeding, but the tissue was too deeply decomposed to even attempt to repair it. The man was pronounced dead at 03:39. The body was very fresh and Molly had just started the preliminary work up, but Sherlock had to see this for himself, so he took it upon himself to dissect a few portions of the bowels.

After John was finally able to drag the pouting Holmes out of the morgue while thanking Molly for entertaining the child for a few hours, John eventually got Sherlock to a restaurant without plastic coated tablecloths and the option for take away. They sat down at a quiet table in the back and perused the menus. John was debating the ethicacy of shoving food down Sherlock's throat we he announced he was actually planning on eating. The great Sherlock Holmes was actually going to eat something.

"Wait what did you just say Sherlock?" retorted a rather confused Watson.

"You heard me. I'm not going to repeat myself," stated a calm Sherlock.

John sat up a little straighter in his chair and looked the detective straight in the eye, "you are actually going to eat dinner without me shoving it down that glorious throat of yours?"

Sherlock set aside the menu he was still holding in one hand and looked straight back at his doctor, "you can stop acting so surprised John. I am human. I do have to eat sometimes."

"Oh really? Because I was under the assumption that you were an android who only ate food to keep up appearances because, as you put it, digestion slows you down," snapped John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked at that last part, "well when I am on a case, it does slow me down, but seeing as we have not had any interesting cases in quite some time, I think I am safe to eat right now."

John just laughed at the clinical-like explanation Sherlock had given as to why it was okay for him to eat that night, but he would take what he could get with this man. It was rare to see him actually eating without being absolutely forced to do so.

They continued the night in a similar fashion. The quips and sarcasm didn't stop at the ordering or even the small glass of wine Sherlock decided to sample. John had never even seen Sherlock with any fluid besides tea. John always sworn this man was going to die of dehydration on an almost daily occasion. Sherlock claimed he simply didn't want to waste his time and energy on such a boring task such as selecting and consuming a beverage even though the brilliant, sometimes chemist, knew how important water was to the basic chemical reactions that drove every single process in his body.

As the night progressed, both men relaxed into their newly found relationship. They had eaten out together before but never on a proper date. John was fairly sure that Sherlock had never been on a date at all, but he seemed to be a natural at it. They both kept the conversation relatively light in the beginning. Well as light as the detective and his doctor could. They talked about the weird cases that had handled, and the ridiculous ones including the three young men who ran the website that led them to believe that comic book characters were coming to life. That was a weird one that reaffirmed the belief that normal people's lives were very dull.

The time at the restaurant came to an end after Sherlock actually consumed a respectable amount of food, and John was pretty sure he would be regretting the heavy, cream-based dish he had just consumed later on in the evening, or at least, he hoped he would.

The two men grabbed a cab back to the flat and spent to whole time just enjoying each other. They tried to ignore the cabbie's not-so-subtle coughs to stop it. The two started by only holding hands, but that only lasted until John had leaned over to steal what was supposed to be a quick kiss from Sherlock. That quick kiss turned into the beginning of what they both hoped would be a long night of snogging.

By the time the cab pulled up outside of 221B, neither man was in a good enough state to pay the driver, but John did his best because he knew Sherlock wouldn't. In fact, the second the cab had stopped, Sherlock jumped out of the vehicle like it was on fire and headed straight for the door. He had his key in the lock before John had told the cabbie to keep the change from the wad of cash he handed him. John followed right after Sherlock into the flat and attacked him after the door was closed behind him.

Sherlock leaned most of his weight onto the sturdy door behind him as John pushed his body flush against the detective's. He reached around to grab a handful of dark hair. He pulled the head that the curls were attached to infinitely closer to him until he heard a sound from the flat that occupied the first floor of the complex. They pulled apart as Sherlock mouthed 'Mrs. Hudson.' John nodded and turned on his heels to sprint up the stairs, taking them two, almost three, at a time.

The men barreled through the door and landed on top of each other as John tripped over the rug that had been placed at the entrance of their flat to make it feel more like a "home" as Mrs. Hudson called it. Their welcome home would be a fresh set of bruises tomorrow morning. Sherlock hopped to his feet, pulling John along with him, and bounded off to the their shared bedroom. They slammed the door shut as both of their cell phones chimed. Both men reached to their own pockets to take out the offending device and chuck it across the room. There would be no more distractions tonight, only Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, together.


	3. Chapter 3

Here is another chapter! I know it is shorter and not as exciting as the others, but it is the beginning of this little thing called a plot. The next chapter will probably be short, but we will see. I have the whole thing outlined, so it should not be too hard for me to get out updates within a reasonable time frame! Enjoy!

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John blinked awake to the sun streaming in through the window curtains that had not been shut the night before. It took him a moment or two to process why he felt so exceedingly stiff and sore, but then he remembered the long night with his detective that seemed to never get tired. John was used to the never-ending energy when it came to a case, but this kind of stamina in every aspect of someone's life could not be normal.

The consulting detective's doctor forced himself out of the empty bed. He was worn out and in need of a long, hot shower that didn't include the raven-haired detective. He needed to coax his muscles into relaxing out of the tight state they were currently in. He walked the few feet to the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as possible and waited. He did not bother with clothes because he was just going to take them off in a moment anyways.

He was grateful for these quiet moments without the detective sometimes. Sherlock always needed to be doing something, and well, no normal person is that active, so these moments alone allowed John a few moments to breathe and relax his mind. Although John doubted he would be able to pull his thoughts from Sherlock for long, he wanted to try and reflect on all of the madness that had ensued since he opened himself up to the crazy man that always seemed to be on his mind. It had been maddeningly frustrating for the month or so between when John came to terms with the fact that he was attracted to Sherlock and when he finally decided to break the ice and tell him that much. The night when he told the detective what he had been blind to was one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. He could handle running into the desert to save wounded soldiers because that was what he was trained to do. There is no training for pouring your heart out to a sociopath. Although John doubted that Sherlock was an actual sociopath. It seemed now like he was only a sociopath to close himself off from those around him that he feels are inferior.

After the shower that seemed to not take as long as he wanted it to, John quickly dried off and got dressed to face the day. Hopefully Sherlock would get a case soon because he was going to end up completely ruining the kitchen if he kept things up the way they were now.

John walked down to the kitchen to see Sherlock holding an Erlenmeyer flask with an odd colored fluid inside. He seemed so wrapped up in his work that he didn't even notice that John had walked into the room. John grabbed a cup and tried to prepare some tea because the day that Sherlock Holmes had tea ready for John when he woke up was the day that John solved a case before Sherlock.

Sherlock managed to look from his experiment for a moment to analyze the disturbance and saw John. Upon the realization that he wasn't alone, Sherlock seemed to snap out of his bored sociopathic mood. He looked up and smiled at John, "So you finally decided to wake up?"

"Sherlock, not all of us can run on two hours of sleep every couple of days. In fact, you shouldn't be able to run on that little sleep. Your brain should have turned to jello years ago," remarked John.

Sherlock seemed to ignore that last statement from John and continued on his own train of thought, "Lestrade texted me last night. He has a quick case for us. Well he didn't say quick, but I assumed. We will leave when you are ready."

John just looked at him. The detective always assumed things were going to be easy and quick until they were chasing a cab around London or being held by Americans with guns aimed at their heads. Sherlock always assumed these cases would be easy, and John always assumed he was going to end up in jail with the criminals they were supposed to be catching. John never did quite know what he was getting himself into with Sherlock Holmes.

"What did Lestrade say about the case?" questioned John who was trying to take his first sips of tea. It was probably futile to try to have a relaxing morning before heading out on a case though.

"Not much. Homicide. Most likely. Seems rather dull. In fact, I have no clue why he even bothered texting me in the first case," replied Sherlock.

John was about to reply with something along the lines of "so you don't blow something up out of boredom" but thought better of it. He just quickly downed his cup of tea and told Sherlock he was ready. They both grabbed their jackets and headed out to catch a cab to the crime scene.

Sherlock was rambling on about some politician who he was convinced was the head of a prostitution ring based off of the fact that said politician was exactly seven minutes and thirty-six seconds late for a press conference last week. John still had no idea at all how Sherlock was able to deduce something like that, but he had no doubt that it was true because Sherlock really wasn't ever wrong about many things.

They arrived at the crime scene that was a moderately nice home just outside of the heart of the city to see Lestrade's car and relatively few other vehicles around. With that few personnel on scene, John doubted that there was really much a case for them to look into. When it was an actual case that would require more of Sherlock's attention than that which a normal person would use to turn off their alarm in the morning there was always more than two cars outside of the scene. John was beginning to question why they were even there.

Sherlock bolted out of the cab, as usual, and John was stuck paying again. John caught up with Sherlock as he reached Greg and the body. The body was casually slumped in a chair in the sitting room. It seemed as if the middle-aged man the body belonged to was just sleeping. John confirmed death and tried to figure out the cause. He didn't see anything that seemed out of place. There weren't any signs of struggle like bruises or broken nails. The man looked rather peaceful.

When John looked up, he could see that Sherlock had somehow already figured out what had happened, but he wanted to test John to see if he would figure it out. This especially irritating habit of Sherlock's was going to have to stop soon, or John would punch him at a crime scene.

"Sherlock, you know I do not know how this man died, so please stop watching me like I am going to do some sort of party trick. I can assure you I do not do backflips or break into random dances. Just please enlighten us all," finished John. Sherlock would stand there forever and mock John if he didn't just tell the bugger to stop.

"Oh you must be blind," Sherlock mocked but continued, "Tetrodotoxin. It is derived from two types of sea life: the pufferfish and a blue-ringed octopus. Isn't that obvious?"

John stared in disbelief at Sherlock. The genius had figured out that this poor man had been poisoned using a neurotoxin derived from some sea life. The big question was how had Sherlock figured this one out. Nothing seemed obvious enough to give away the answer, and if Sherlock did not wipe the smug look off of his face within a few seconds John was going to do it for him.

"Sherlock, just explain it," encouraged Lestrade. Nobody likes a show-off less than a detective trying to solve a case.

Sherlock took in a long and obnoxiously loud breath before he began, "How did you miss it John? You have keen eyes. There is a needle mark on the side of his neck. Very small gauge, probably eighteen, maybe twenty gauge, but easily seen if one were to look. Now the poison could be a number of things, but going by the numerous take out menus that include different forms of sushi including one restaurant that seems to specialize in rare seafood, one could assume that he liked food that previously occupied aqueous habitats, and simply ate ill-prepared puffer once the neurotoxin was found during autopsy, but considering a restaurant that serves pufferfish would not likely deliver their food, it can be assumed that someone stabbed him with a syringe full of the toxin and hoped it appeared as if he had just been careless with his choice of seafood. Really this was all rather boring," Sherlock finished while looking at John. Lestrade appeared flabbergasted by this realization.

"But how could you possibly have known that? I can't even see a needle mark," responded Lestrade, "also who did it?"

John looked closely at the man's neck, and directly below his right ear, there was a small prick that could be mistaken for anything but a needle mark. He was sure that Sherlock was right but still couldn't believe it.

"Isn't it clear? His sister," responded Sherlock.

"What? How could you tell that?" stammered the detective inspector.

Sherlock had decided to not respond to Lestrade's last remark and turned to leave. John had to just smirk at his detective. He could deduce and solve a murder in under five minutes, but his interpersonal skills usually left something to be desired. John had to bid Greg a quick goodbye as he tried to catch up to Sherlock, so he wouldn't have to take a separate taxi back to Baker Street.

As they settled into the ride back to the flat, John was still confused how Sherlock had deduced that one but decided to not push the issue. Sherlock explaining a deduction was painfully irritating during the best of times, and right now, John did not feel like being patronized. He was still quite tired and sore.

They sat in silence as the cab snaked back to their flat. Sherlock was deep in his mind palace while John was simply tired. He needed an actual full night of sleep that wasn't interrupted by Sherlock in one way or another.

As they pulled up to the flat, John paid the cabbie, and they both headed inside. Sherlock was eerily quiet, and John was starting to worry. This was very out of character. Usually after he solved a murder that quickly, he would be bragging to John about how he did it right about now, but instead he was silent.

"Sherlock are you okay?" asked John once they reached the top of the stairs into their flat. Sherlock didn't seem to notice John at first until the older man put his hand on his arm to try to get his attention. That seemed to snap him back to reality as he looked at John.

"Oh yes, I am fine. I am simply bored. I need something interesting to do," responded Sherlock. John was beginning to think that Sherlock was amusing himself by keeping track of how many times he could say or appear to be bored within a short time span of a few days. Maybe John would start keeping track himself.

As Sherlock headed into the kitchen to continue on with his experiments that seemed to be getting more ridiculous by the day, John's phone chimed, signaling a text message. She opened it to see his sister's name and a few words. He was about to ignore it until he saw the word 'help.' Upon spotting that word, his heartbeat quickened, and he read the message. Harry had just gone to see a specialist about a mass that had been found in her lower abdominal region during a routine check up. John had to take a seat before he could respond to his sister. He asked the usual things. How was she feeling? Did she notice any symptoms? Did they think it was cancer?

Even though Harry was usually a pain in the ass, she was still his sister, and when sober, they still cared for each other. Harry said that the doctors really were not sure of anything at this point in time, but she wanted her brother there. The medical terminology was confusing and overwhelming for her. After promising Harry that he would be at her side in less than twenty-four hours, John went to tell Sherlock.

John entered the kitchen and Sherlock actually raised his head to acknowledge his presence. "Yes John?" asked Sherlock.

"My sister needs me. She just sent me a message saying they found a tumor in her abdomen, and she is having surgery in the next few days. I know what I have said about her in the past, but she is my sister. I need to be there for her," responded John. Sherlock looked at him and nodded. He could see the concern in his eyes for his sister although he did not quite understand how John could go from being constantly mad at her to caring for her again in less than ten minutes, but he knew enough about John Watson to know that this was important to him.

"Of course John. Are you leaving tonight then?" questioned Sherlock. John nodded and went to go pack.

After he threw a few necessities in a travel bag, he returned to see Sherlock in the kitchen engrossed in his work. He apparently was starting a whole new experiment right away. John walked up to him and waited for him to put his slide down before he grabbed him and pulled him in for a kiss. He knew he would not be seeing Sherlock for at least another week, probably longer, so he was going to make sure he made the most out of this last kiss.

After they pulled apart, John texted Harry that he was leaving now. He would be there as soon as he could. She was only an hour or so away from Baker Street, so hopefully he would be there quickly.

John looked at the mess that was their kitchen and groaned, "Sherlock try not to destroy the kitchen while I am gone, and be nice to Lestrade."

Sherlock smiled and nodded as John turned and went down the stairs to leave the flat. He needed to be with his sister right now although a big part of him just wanted to turn around and stay with Sherlock instead. He got in a cab and headed to see his sister while leaving Sherlock to his own devices even though he had a nagging feeling that would not end well.


	4. Chapter 4

Here is the next chapter! I had such fun writing it. It really is amazing how much of an escape writing can be! I hope you enjoy it. Just so you know, this story will be a little darker now. Nothing too extreme, but it is straying away from fluff.

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John was always worried when he had to leave Sherlock alone for an extended time period. He seemed to need to have another human near him even if it was just to talk to mindlessly. This time John would be away would be different though. He was not leaving because he needed a break from the genius. This time he was being drawn away because his sister needed him. Harry and John had never particularly gotten along rather well, but she was his sister, and he would be there for her when she needed him. Such an uncertain diagnosis would be terrifying to the strongest of people, but for someone who leaned on substances to get them through their days when life got a little hard, major surgery would be terrifying without someone there to help you through it.

John was hoping that a new serial killer would immerge, so Sherlock would have a case while he was gone. Leaving Sherlock alone when he was entertained was dangerous enough, but leaving him alone when he was extremely bored sounded like John was begging to have the flat destroyed. Coming back to fresh bullet holes and decaying human flesh in the refrigerator would probably be a good outcome compared to what Sherlock could do.

As John left, Sherlock let his mind slip into mundane thoughts. He was just preparing a couple of cultures that would need a few days to incubate along with the severed hand he had in the fridge. He was saving that to dissect and fully explore the muscle attachments in the hand. As a musician, he was deeply appreciative of the accuracy and precision of the human hand muscles and wanted to study them in more detail. Currently he had nothing else to amuse himself, so he procured a hand from an unclaimed corpse in the morgue.

Even though Sherlock had lived a number of years of his life alone, it felt odd to him to not have John around. He had gotten so used to living with the older man that without his presence, Sherlock felt like the flat was missing something. John was not exactly a graceful or quite man, so without that added noise, the flat was indeed a lot quieter than normal.

The quiet was getting to him. He couldn't handle the oppression that silence seemed to bring with it, so he gravitated towards his old friend, his violin. He first picked up the light instrument and settled it under his chin and reached for the bow. It took very little attention to play his instrument now. For the first few weeks, when he was learning, he had to think about finger position and how to move his bow, but now it was second nature. He just let his music take him wherever he needed to go whether that was to a happy place with flowing rhythm or a dark hymn that reflected his pain in one of his favorite minor keys. Music was his safety net when he needed to process something hard or disappear from everything altogether.

Today he chose a melody of melancholy attitude. The notes were languid and precious spelling out the emotions he could not put into words. His time with John had always been a bit odd. They had moved in together after knowing each other for a day, and John had killed for Sherlock not long after that. There was an unspoken rule that each would do anything in their capability to save to other.

Until recently though, Sherlock understood his role in their partnership. They were friends who solved criminal cases. Sherlock was the smart one; John was the fighter. They had their roles and they stuck to them until they didn't. Everything was different now, and Sherlock still had a hard time processing that. He was afraid that although he and John had been through a lot together, he could still mess things up. He had never been one to be spectacular with emotions, and now those emotions were much stronger than he ever thought possible. Today his music played out as strong as ever, but this time he wasn't playing for himself; he was playing for John. He was playing for the small piece of his heart that had warmed back up. He was playing for that part of his heart that had to leave him to help his sister.

Although Sherlock completely understood that John had to be with his sister, he hated that John wasn't there with him. He felt lost without his best friend. He did not have a case to work on. He didn't have John to talk to. He was exceedingly bored. He couldn't remember feeling this bored in a long while. Sherlock had even texted Lestrade a number of times begging for a case, but Lestrade insisted that there wasn't much going on. The cases they currently had were basically solving themselves. They didn't need the genius because even the most stunted detectives had figured out their cases. It was almost as if Sherlock wasn't needed anymore. The big crimes had somehow disappeared, and he was left to amuse himself. Surely that would not end well.

He played for what felt like hours. Sherlock needed his music. It calmed him down; it put him more at ease. His melody rarely changed from its form though. He was bored and lonely, but he had only really acknowledged one of those emotions before. He usually just ignored the feeling that he was alone. He could handle the loneliness because other people were so tedious, yet all he wanted was to look over at John's chair and see the slight smile that always crept up on his face when Sherlock was playing. Although John had only been gone for about two days, Sherlock was already missing him. He had never felt that way before; he felt confused and upset with himself for being so weak.

Once he hit his last note and let it ring through the air, he knew he had to do something besides play. If he spent all of the time John would be gone playing his violin, Mrs. Hudson would surely know something was up, so Sherlock put his instrument down and walked towards the kitchen. He needed to figure out something to do before he got any more bored.

He grabbed a couple of clean test tubes and added hydrofluoric acid to one. He set down both tubes in the holder and went to the fridge and grabbed out a small piece of raw chicken and put in on a plastic board. He brought that over to his acid and picked up his test tube. He gently poured a small amount of the acid on the raw tissue and waited. It was only a few drops of the acid, but he knew that would be enough. He let that sit for a moment while he surveyed the mess he had made in the kitchen. There were dirty test tubes, flasks, beakers, and a number of other instruments everywhere. He knew that it had been irritating John for a while, but he had insisted that he was still finishing up some experiments, and he would clean up when he was done. He hadn't been done with his experiments for over a month now.

As the acid slowly began to disassociate and turn the meat into a dry, disgusting hunk of boredom in front of Sherlock, he decided he would surprise John and actually clean the kitchen. The kitchen did look a lot worse than it had in a while, and he had nothing to do. If this was what normal, domestic life was like, we wanted out right away.

It took him an hour to simply find the table he had taken over and then decided the task was much bigger than he had thought it would be, so he texted Lestrade again. He needed a case, any case, anything to keep his brain busy. He was not built for housework.

Once again, Lestrade informed him that the criminals of London had decided to take an aggravating vacation, and Sherlock started to contemplate what he could do with his time. The apartment was getting small by the hour. Sherlock had solved all of the interesting cases months ago. The only thing left was irritatingly simple murders and selfish suicides that always left a note. Nothing looked remotely suspicious or odd, and that frustrated Sherlock to no end. All of the smart ones were hiding, trying to formulate their next move. There was no way that all of the interesting criminals in London had been caught, and Sherlock wanted to catch them all.

He needed out of his cage. The flat was not all that large, and without John there to talk to, the only other thing he could talk to was his skull, and that was beginning to get redundant, so he walked over to the skull and pulled a cigarette out of the base of it and headed outside. The weather was still fair, so there was no need for his coat; there was no need to draw attention to himself. That coat seemed to draw attention. The media knew that coat, and he wanted to avoid the media. If he could make them all disappear, he would. Well that was a lie, he could make them disappear, but that would be quite a lot of work, and people would notice.

He stepped out of the flat with his phone in hand. He sent one more text to Lestrade, almost begging for a murder now. He got nothing in return and started to walk. He didn't have a route planed out. He just wanted to walk and get out. He would never admit to John that he went for a walk to clear his mind. That would be admitting to an alarmingly human habit.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Sherlock was snooping through back alleys and dark corners. He took the less traveled streets that he knew were frequented by those less-than-civil. He was bored and seeking out a rush. He solved crimes to get that rush back, but without the crimes, he was rotting from the inside out. He could practically feel his brain screaming for something to do. He lit the cigarette he still had on him and took a long, slow drag. The chemicals burned his mouth and throat, but he held it. He needed to feel something, and this was better than nothing. The nicotine began to attach to the acetylcholine receptors in his mind and momentarily allowed him to feel some relief. The mild release of dopamine within his nervous system took the edge off of his addiction. It was hard to explain the feeling of relief to those who had never dealt with addiction, but to those with an addictive personality, it was simple. He needed that which called to him. He was an addict, and he always would be. It was all just a matter of what he chose to take the edge off of that yearning, and cigarettes seemed to be the most legal and accessible thing he could find right now.

He was walking through a few alleys that he vaguely remembered from his past. The memories were old and fuzzy. All of his other memories were quite bright and sharp, but these seemed to be dulled by something, and it took him a moment to remember exactly why the memories were so nebulous until it hit him; the last time that he had been on these streets he had been high. He had been so high that his heart and other vital organs should have given out, but somehow his body had been strong and kept functioning. It had kept functioning, so he kept pumping chemicals into his veins. He fed his nervous system the poisonous fuel it craved. He needed the high to keep himself at a normal level even though that was the high that had almost killed him. It probably would have if not for his brother and Lestrade pulling him off of the streets. Those streets were his home until they reminded them that they didn't have to be. Mycroft had made sure that Sherlock realized what he was doing was going to kill him, but that didn't mean that he did not still have cravings almost everyday of his life. He solved crimes to get his kicks. He would do almost anything to not want to go back to this way of life, but he felt that pull all of the time.

He walked to the end of the piss-scented alley and turned. He was tempting himself too much at this point. The memories were still hazy, but he could remember the feeling; he could remember the high. The memories were surfacing in unexpected ways now. He remembered certain graffiti and dumpsters that smelt as if they hadn't been emptied since the last time he had walked on these streets.

He was deeply entrenched in his own mind when he heard a voice, a voice he had not heard in years that gave him instant chills. He wasn't a man to whom fear came easily, but at that moment, he was hoping that what he was hearing was simply his own mind playing tricks on him. He was truly scared of hearing that voice again. The voice that belonged to the source of everything that he was addicted to. That voice had taken so much from him that he was surprised that he didn't simply collapse under the weight of the memories and pain that sprouted up in his mind.

Sherlock took a moment to process that the voice was not in his mind. That voice was coming out of a body that stood about ten feet away from him. He felt something extremely similar to fear seep back into his veins. He tightened his jaw and spun on his heels to face one of the many demons from his past.

The worn out eyes and leathery skin smirked towards Sherlock as he remained as hard-faced as he could. That face reminded him that he had had something precious taken from him because of something poisonous. A smirk appeared on the other man's face as he opened his mouth to taunt Sherlock, " I never thought I would see your face again Sherly."

Sherlock grimaced at the old pet name, "Neither did I. I was simply going for a walk. I'll be headed home now." Sherlock went to turn back towards Baker Street, but something about the horrible man in front of him made him stop, perhaps it was the taunting look in his eye.

"Oh you miss it don't you dear boy. You miss the high. How did you used to put it? Oh yes, you miss the 'stimulation' that the chemicals give you. Sherly, one hit is all you would need to remember it," sneered his old dealer.

Sherlock bit down as he tried to breathe in through his nose and relax. "Timothy, it would be a lie to say I don't miss it, but I have found something even better. I have a high that no drug could give me."

Sherlock was forcing these words out because he knew the truth. He knew that right now the chemicals were screaming for him. It is amazing how a single face, name or phrase can change your whole mood. An hour before he had been so bored with domestic life that he was actually attempting to clean the kitchen. Now he was facing his demons, the voice he hadn't heard in years beckoned back memories of pain, euphoria, desperation, and, above all, terror, absolute and pure terror that he was about to lose everything he had worked so hard for because he was weak to the siren call of cocaine.

There was a reason he avoided even mentioning the word in conversation because uttering the word reminded him that it existed and could easily send him back to addiction, back to dependence. He knew it was a childish defense mechanism to believe that if he could not see it, it did not exist, but up until now, it had worked. He hadn't relapsed in years and had saved countless people with his work. For all intents and purposes, he should not feel the urge to escape his new life that he had built, but his mind and desires were betraying him. Sherlock could almost feel the burn in his nasal passages and the rage in his blood again. The pure energy and power seeped back into his memory. He could almost taste the high again.

Now he knew he had two options. The first was to turn around and head straight back to Baker Street and take comfort in his new life that was full of simple happiness and friends, but John wasn't there. John was not there to stop him. That did not make him feel any better; in fact it made him feel even more alone. His other option was to walk forward and acknowledge the burning in his veins, free the addiction that smoldered in his mind.

The answer to his dilemma should have been simple because he had everything he could possibly need, or want, yet he was lonely and exceedingly bored. The temptation was standing right in front of him. Perhaps if he were to only take a few hits to calm the fire, he would be okay. Perhaps he could walk away from this relatively unscathed, but he knew that if he began to walk back down that path, there was a chance he wouldn't be able to turn around.

"Timothy, how much?" asked Sherlock refusing to make eye contact.


End file.
